


Cracked and Torn

by justdk



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Child Abuse, Gen, Headcanon, Homophobia, OCD, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 01:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16714126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justdk/pseuds/justdk
Summary: Trapped in an abusive home and hostile school, Adam's OCD starts to spiral.





	Cracked and Torn

“Freak.”

Adam hunched over his desk and ducked his head. He didn’t want to look up and acknowledge his tormentor. Class would start soon and then he could focus on his work, not his ignorant classmates.

“He’s so gross. Did you see his hands?”

“Better not touch him, who knows what disease you might pick up.”

“Disgusting.”

Adam tugged the sleeves of his shirt down over the backs of his hands, cringing as the fabric rubbed against his cracked and bleeding skin. The stinging pain was familiar and the inside of his sleeves were always dotted with blood now that the temperatures had turned bitter cold. His mother told him there wasn’t enough money for ointment or lotion, and he couldn’t risk wrapping his hands, not after last time. The one time he had attempted wrapping his hands in gauze he had been sent to the nurse who found the bruises on his arms, then he was sent to the guidance counselor who called his parents. When he got home his father taught him what would happen if he drew attention to himself – and their family – again. It was a Friday and he was laid up for the entire weekend, barely able to drag himself to school on Monday. Never again.

The bell rang, jolting Adam from his bad memories. The class settled down and Adam studiously took notes during the entire period. He was the first out the door when the bell rang again to dismiss them, and he was first into the bathroom. He jerked his sleeves up to his wrists and scrubbed at his hands, washing away the blood, even though more instantly seeped to the surface. He skipped drying them, mostly to get out before the other boys crowded in, but also in the vain hope that the water on his skin would soothe his hands. They _did_ feel a little better. Cleaner. Adam always longed to be clean.

“Watch it, fuckface!” A boy elbowed him, shoving him against the wall. Adam winced. His side was already dull purple and yellow from slow fading bruises, and the extra abuse set him alight with pain. The boy said other things, slurs that Adam had been hearing since middle school. He didn’t know if they were true or not, all he knew was that he had to keep his head down and survive. He wasn’t going to die in Henrietta.

He made it through the rest of the day following the same routine: class, hand washing, class, hand washing, rinse and repeat. His hands were aching by the end of school and he still had his shift at Boyd’s. The shop was warm enough but working on cars was greasy, dirty, grueling labor – all of it hands on. Adam worried that the oil and gunk that got smeared on his hands would cause some future health problems. And it was excruciating scrubbing up at the end of the day with the orange scented lava soap. The only respite was the bottle of generic hand lotion that Boyd left on the sink for all the guys to use; Adam considered it to be one of the best job perks. It didn’t undo the damage to his skin but it did keep the situation from becoming unbearable.

The bike ride back to the trailer was bitterly cold. An icy wind blew down from the mountains and Adam shivered uncontrollably as he pedaled through town. He had forgotten his hat so his ears were freezing, just like his nose, just like his exposed fingers and hands. Actually, he hadn’t forgotten. His father had been in an ill mood that morning and Adam had escaped the house before his father could lay a hand on him; it wasn’t worth it to try and grab his hat and gloves before leaving.

His mother didn’t come to the door when Adam got back. The light was on in the kitchen and a plate of food waited for him on the counter. Adam didn’t bother heating it up or even sitting down. He hurriedly ate the lukewarm pasta, scantly covered in sauce and with hotdog pieces mixed in. It was a regular staple since all the items could be purchased at the nearby discount store. Adam washed up the plate, doing his best not to rinse the lotion from his hands.

He skirted by the den, waving to his mother and quietly thanking her for the food. She nodded and went back to watching whatever show was on. His father was out which meant Adam could breathe easy for a while. He closed his bedroom door and started in on his homework, studying, and additional reading.

Adam Parrish had a secret desire, one that not even his puerile classmates could have guessed: Adam wanted to be a Raven Boy. At night he dreamed of crisp shirts, uniform jackets, ivy covered buildings, spacious classrooms awash in golden sunlight, green lawns, and rows upon rows of books in the large library. He knew that he would be an outsider amongst the rich and privileged boys but he could take that. He was already an outsider in the halls of his public high school, an outsider in his home; surely it wouldn’t be so bad. He had already discussed the possibility of transferring with the guidance counselor and – if he could raise enough funds and get an academic scholarship – he would be starting there next fall.

This dream kept Adam plugging away at his supplementary work until nearly midnight when he heard the dreaded roar of his father’s truck. Adam’s pulse spiked and he lunged for the switch on his study lamp, cutting off the light and plunging his room into chilly darkness.

Out in the driveway the truck rumbled to a stop and his father slammed the door shut. Adam got into bed, pulling the covers up, nearly over his head, and tried to be still. If he looked like he was asleep maybe his father would ignore him. He strained his ears to listen for the shuffle of footsteps on the crush and run gravel. If his father was dragging his feet he was drunk. If he was drunk then he would be mean, unpredictable, dangerous. Adam scarcely remembered to breathe. His fingers ached but he kept his hands balled into fists anyway.

The front door slammed open, then slammed closed. Adam could hear every word his father said, even though his voice was slurred. He couldn’t hear his mother’s replies. There was some shouting but that was normal. The TV channel was switched to a hunting show and his father turned up the volume. Adam breathed.

—–

There was a saying that Adam truly believed: that there was always calm before the storm. So, really, he had only himself to blame for being blindsided by what happened that day.

He had finished his last class of the day and while everyone was racing off to clubs, sports, or the bus, he slipped into the restroom for one final hand washing. Typically he would take his time, needing to thoroughly cleanse his hands. He had a preferred regime of two pumps of soap, scrubbing for sixty seconds, rinsing for 30, and hand drying. It was anal, sure, but it made him feel better. He was just lathering up when the door banged open and a group of boys clustered in. They didn’t look surprised to see him. Adam knew that was a bad sign.

“Well look who it is,” the leader said, “Adam Pervert Parrish.” The boys snickered and Adam shrank against the sink, his soapy hands limp at his sides. He searched for an opening, a weak link, but found none. “What are you doing in here, pervert? Jerking off?” One of the boys made a gesture and the others laughed loudly. Adam’s face burned. “You’ve seen him, right guys, always running in here between classes? You just can’t keep your hands off yourself. Must be why your hands are so fucking gross. Your junk though…” There was a sick look in the boy’s eyes, a different kind of cruelty than what Adam found at home. “Your dick must be about to fall off you’ve been jacking it so much.”

Adam did not like the way the boys crowded closer, did not like the trajectory of this intimidation. Getting beaten up was one thing but this…

“I have a skin condition,” Adam said, his voice wobbling, “I have to wash my hands because they bleed. That’s—”

One of the boys shoved him. Adam’s hip banged against the side of the sink. “Don’t fucking talk to us, you piece of shit!” The other boys weren’t laughing now. They were glaring, like Adam’s very existence was an affront to them. Adam’s brain spun, panic clawing hard. He had a 4.0, he was miles ahead of all these idiots but he couldn’t reason his way out, couldn’t win this fight.

Someone grabbed his shirt, tugging so hard that the thin fabric tore. He was thrown to the dirty tile floor, kicked in his bruised ribs. A heavy boot, crusted with mud, pressed down on his chest, keeping him from rolling into the fetal position.

“Let’s take a look.” The lead boy crouched down over Adam and Adam really did panic. He kicked out, fighting like he never had before to get away.

“STOP IT!” Adam yelled, his voice loud and echoing in the cramped room. “GET OFF ME!”

That shouldn’t have worked – yelling for help had never saved him before – but then door swung open and a teacher appeared, his face momentarily slack with shock.

“WHAT IS GOING ON?” the teacher shouted, though Adam thought it was obvious what was going on. “THE OFFICE. NOW.”

The boys looked spooked, cowardly. They shuffled out of the room and Adam got to his feet, one arm wrapped protectively over his ribs.

“Are you alright?” the teacher asked. He seemed uncomfortable talking to Adam.

Adam swallowed and picked up his book bag. He thought about the days he still had to endure here, wondered if they would be better or worse depending on how truthful he was in this moment. In the end it was the horrific possibility of hands touching him, doing worse than hurting him that made him look the teacher in the eye and say, “No.”

—–

It would be a lie to say that things got better after that. But they didn’t get worse. The boys were suspended, their ringleader expelled. Adam splurged and bought a huge bottle of hand sanitizer and used it instead of venturing into the bathrooms. The alcohol-based liquid felt like fire on his hands, burning into cracks of his skin. It was worse than lemon in paper cuts but Adam built up a tolerance. Or he liked to think so.

The guidance counselor made him visit once a week under the guise of working on his transfer. Adam resented being pulled out of classes, especially when he didn’t see the point of their meetings.

It took a couple weeks for the counselor to ask about his hands. Adam explained his skin condition, the need to keep his hands clean. The counselor listened and didn’t say anything. Adam fidgeted.

“I never feel clean,” Adam finally admitted. “Everything I touch is dirty. _I’m_ dirty because humans are; we’re covered in germs. We’re filthy.”

He swallowed the words he had heard his father and his classmates use. He disgusted others. He was the unwanted product of an act that had only been described in vulgar terms. He was fundamentally vile and of course he needed to wash off some of that stain, scrub away any taint he came into contact with. It was his bad luck that his skin cracked and tore, bled so that everyone could see how unclean he was.

“So you’re a germophobe?” the counselor asked. She tapped her fingers on the desk and then touched her face. Adam fought down a grimace. “Adam, you’re a very smart student. I’m going to give you a project. You’re going to research germophobia this week. You won’t need to write a paper but next week we’ll meet and talk about what you discovered. Then we’ll move on to other subjects.”

“I don’t think I’m a germophobe,” Adam said. The counselor gave him an assessing look so he followed it up with, “But I’ll certainly do the research. It should be interesting.”

“That’s all I ask,” the counselor replied. She shuffled through some papers before retrieving one with the Aglionby letterhead. Adam’s heart leapt into his throat and he had to will himself to stay in his seat instead of grabbing for the letter. The counselor noticed his reaction and smiled. For once she looked genuinely happy.

“Now,” the counselor beamed, “let me tell you the good news.”

**Author's Note:**

> My hands have started getting dry again now that the weather is cold and that, of course, made me think of Adam. There have been times in the past when my hands cracked and bled, when I felt embarrassed and grossed out by it. This led me to explore a headcanon that Adam’s dry hands are exacerbated by an OCD level of hand washing. In canon we know Adam used to lick his hands to make them feel better but discovered this made his hands worse. What if he was berated for that behavior? Called gross and disgusting? So he starts obsessively washing his hands. What starts as a way to soothe his skin becomes tied to the need to be clean, to not be gross and dirty. What happens when home abuse is joined with in-school bullying and homophobia? I imagined Adam entering an obsessive spiral and not recognizing what he was doing but, ultimately, getting help. Again, this is a headcanon and I don’t think canon Adam is a germophobe or OCD. Just blame me and my brain for all this angst and suffering. Also: I’m not an expert on any of these topics so if I’m getting something deeply wrong let me know.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @dkafterdark


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